


Shoeshine

by StudyOfTheBrain



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: BDSM, D/s, Dominance and Submission, Dominant John, Foot Fetish, M/M, Masturbation, Riding Crop, boot licking, foot worship, submissive Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-05
Updated: 2013-08-05
Packaged: 2017-12-22 11:23:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/912624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StudyOfTheBrain/pseuds/StudyOfTheBrain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John knows how well Sherlock embraces the term 'boot-licker'. Dominance and submission at its finest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shoeshine

**Author's Note:**

> Fulfilling a request for someone on tumblr. I have this thing for John kicking Sherlock's ass and they have a thing for Sherlock liking feet, so we've gotten along rather nicely.

When John was away, Sherlock would play, and Sherlock always did play.

When John stepped through the door at six in the evening, he came to find that Sherlock had completely dismembered the electric kettle, the silver and copper bits strewn over his desk like shrapnel. He prodded at a small metal bit with a long, silver instrument, glancing between it and a few pieces of paper torn from a book on circuitry. His white sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. “John,” he regarded the other. 

John tried to greet him but grunted instead. All he wanted was a cup of tea, to curl up in his chair and to maybe fall asleep there. He could deal with heating his water in the microwave, if he had to, he supposed. He went to the refrigerator and peeked inside. “Why are we still out of milk?”

“ _Ah,_ I didn’t get it.” All his _t_ sounds were hard and sharp. Without even looking at him John could see that expression of nonchalance, the dismissive raising of his brows as he disregarded anything and everything not related to his own personal interests. 

Hand still on the refrigerator door, John turned towards him. “What? Why?”

“Busy.”

The word hit him like a dagger. “Busy--? You’re fiddling with the kettle! I told you to get the groceries this morning, is this what you’ve done all day?”

Sherlock groaned, his eyes rolling back for a moment. “ _Shopping_. How dull. This is far more interesting. We can have tea twenty-eight seconds sooner now.”

John crossed the room and took Sherlock’s slender chin into his hand, tilting his face upward. His eyes looked large, maybe even innocent. His slender hands were still in the disembowelled kettle, metal guts beneath his fingers. 

“Why did you intentionally disobey me?” he asked. Somehow John’s voice was soft, lowered to just above a whisper. 

Sherlock snapped at John’s hand like a piranha, his teeth clicking together sharply. John just barely withdrew in time, teeth clacking at his fingertips. “Bugger off! I’m working!”

John imagined that Sherlock thought he’d gotten away with it when he left to change out of his work shoes in the bedroom. From beneath the bed, John took a pair of black boots, heavy in his hand, and slid them on his feet, the laces long and untied like a pair of black snakes. One end in each hand and he tugged, the boot clenching down hard on his foot. He wriggled his toes inside them. Oh, how long it had been. 

The sound of his feet was heavy and hollow on the wooden floor and though Sherlock must have heard him approaching from behind, he neither turned nor said anything. John wound his hand back, fingers curled around the object in his fist, and brought the flattened end of the riding crop down on Sherlock’s shoulder with a sharp _thwack!_ The detective cried out, a gravelly and unflattering sound that made John chuckle under his breath. Sherlock dropped the pieces of kettle in his hands, his back arching forward in his chair, the movement so quick that his dark curls bounced in his face. 

“Go on,” John said. “On the floor.”

Sherlock turned to him in his seat, looking up at the other as if he were totally, completely mad. “No!”

Quick as a whip, John struck him again, the crop cracking across his upper arm, and Sherlock growled, “ _Argh--!_ I’m _working!_ ”

John sighed, the sound mildly annoyed, and took Sherlock by the collar of his white shirt, tugging him from his seat and bringing him to the floor. The detective’s legs kicked out, shoving the chair back, toppling it over. He ended up on his belly, landing there with a low _oof!_ John pressed his heavy boot down on the centre of Sherlock’s back, pinning him there. With his knee raised just a bit, John looked as if he’d demanded ownership of Sherlock, stuck his flag in him and claimed him in the name of John. 

“What’s the matter?” he asked, tilting his head a bit. “Feeling a little neglected? Looking for some attention?”

Hands pressed into the floor, elbows bent as if he might try and raise himself up, Sherlock snarled, “ _No._ ”

The riding crop came down again, this time on the flesh of his arse. Sherlock growled and John inquired, “No, what?”

Through grit teeth, he answered, “No, _Captain._ ”

When John removed his foot there was a perfect dusty imprint of his shoe on Sherlock’s back, a stamp of dirt on his expensive shirt. Of course Sherlock was dressed nicely, looking sharp and smart even for busting up a kettle around the flat, and his entire ensemble probably cost more than every item in John’s wardrobe combined. When he took his hundred pound shirt to the dry cleaner’s they’d see where John had been and wonder who had been stomping around on him. 

He walked around to Sherlock’s front, each step loud and slow and torturously close, so close that he could have kicked him if he wanted, could have stepped on any body part of his and made him whine and beg. When the boots stand still in front of Sherlock’s face he looks from them, the black, dusty toes, then up to John, then back to the boots again, his eyes doing a little vertical dance. John nudged Sherlock’s mouth with his right foot, actually parting his lips with it. 

“Haven’t had my boots cleaned in a while,” John mused, the riding crop brushing through Sherlock’s hair, parting his curls. Sherlock doesn’t need to be told what this means.

His belly still pressed into the hard lengths of floorboard, Sherlock took John’s boot into his hands, his skin looking as white as bone against the black material. For a moment he just looked at it, eyes darting here and there, and John can actually see that big brain working, turning out all sorts of information about his footwear. Combat boots made in Germany, waterproof leather, Gore-Tex nylon side panels with a modified sole for damp conditions and he knows, he knows just by looking, that John never wore these in Afghanistan, he bought them just for Sherlock, just for them. 

Sherlock’s lips parted and he laved his tongue over the toe, all the dirt and grime catching on the wet muscle, all the dust from months of disuse beneath the bed where they slept and played and fucked. He groaned, partially because he could taste everything, even the old residue of shoeshine that still lingered there, and partially because of the torture of being so terribly close to John without being able to touch him. He closed his lips around the leather as if kissing it, the material becoming shiny with the wetness of his mouth, his hands clutching at John’s ankles.

Arm bent at the elbow, riding crop up against his shoulder, John encouraged him, “Yes, that’s very nice. Don’t forget the bottom, that hasn’t been tidied up in a bit, either.” He tilted his foot up, inviting the pink tongue to excavate the dirt that was trapped in the indented patterns of the sole of his shoe. The detective obliged him, taking the heel of the boot into his hands to steady the angle and dipping his tongue into the little canyons of filth, cleaning them, tasting every road that John had walked just to filthy them for Sherlock. Greatorex, Westinburgh, the inside of a cab, crime scene, dust from the rug, grass particles from the park on Highland—Sherlock tasted all of them, tasted the gummy rubber barrier between him and his partner, everything. John watched this as if Sherlock was some rare and endangered creature; this was Sherlock's mating dance, the one that John had picked out for him, and he followed the choreography beautifully. 

Pulling his foot away and placing it on the floor, John praised him, “That was very good. I’m impressed.” He took a few steps towards the chair that Sherlock had kicked to the floor and lifted it back onto its legs, sitting down in it. “I’d like you to take my boots off, now.”

The command was hardly out of John’s mouth and Sherlock was crawling over to obey it. A little reactionary, but thankfully he wasn’t scolded for it. His excitement seeped through his actions, his long, musician’s fingers working nimbly over the tight laces of John’s boots, the strings knotted so tightly together that he swore John had done it on purpose just to make it difficult for him. He bit down on his bottom lip in anticipation, loosening the shoestrings and tugging on the heel until it finally came free, Sherlock literally making a weak cry of happiness when he was at last able to remove John’s foot from the leather encasement. 

John was still wearing his socks from the day, the white cotton smelling only softly of John’s natural inoffensive cologne, and Sherlock looked up at him, his index finger hooked inside the band of fabric around his ankle. John nodded at him. “You may,” he said. 

The sock came off of his foot and Sherlock made a shameless sound of appreciation, throwing the item aside and pressing his thumbs into the sole of John’s foot, his eyes closing as he pressed his mouth against his toes. John resisted a chuckle at the tickling sensation, scratching his own head with the riding crop. How he wished the world could see Sherlock now, his brilliance channelled into his own beautiful perversity. 

Small, breathy sounds were coming out of Sherlock’s mouth as he kissed and sucked, his tongue lapping at the subtle instep of John’s foot. His prick was painfully hard against the material of his black trousers and he ached to press his hand there, to grope at himself through his clothes, but he hadn’t yet asked permission and his mouth was too occupied to do so. John tasted salty, with the natural savouriness of any other part of his body only this one was so much better, so much more beautiful and angular in his hands with so many more parts to rub his fingers over. 

“You have beautiful feet,” he gasped, taking John’s largest toe into his mouth, his hands rubbing around the other’s ankle. “Captain,” he added, kissing the pad of the toe apologetically. 

John chuckled lowly, resting his elbow on the arm of the chair and watching Sherlock as if he were an animal doing something mildly interesting. “So you’ve told me. Are you going to disobey me again?”

Shaking his head vigorously, Sherlock answered, “No, Captain.” 

He brushed Sherlock’s cheek with the riding crop. How pretty he looked, how handsome--beautiful beyond gender--when he was revelling in John's authority. “Are you going to do errands when I tell you to?”

A nod. He kissed John’s ankle, the dark hairs of his legs brushing against his lips. “Yes, Captain.”

“Very good,” he praised. “Take off my other shoe and sock, please, I’m feeling a bit lop-sided.” 

Sherlock was only too happy to comply, pulling off the boot with incredible vigour, rolling up the stiff fabric of John’s denim trousers, kissing into that little jutting bone on the side of his ankle, licking him, loving him. He pushed his finger in between the gap between John’s first and second toe, feeling the tiny numbs of flesh and bone against his hand. He groaned, and unable to help himself he pressed his palm into the aching bulge between his legs. He could feel that his pants were wet and sticky and he knew later they would be crusted over with the dried remains of his arousal. “God, John, please,” he begged. “Please.”

John considered this for a long, tortuous moment, making a condescending and contemplative _Hmm_ sound. “Alright,” he decided finally. “But let me know when you’re about to finish. Please don’t take too long, I have things I’d like to do this evening.”

With an understanding nod, Sherlock sat back on his calves, opening his trousers and pulling his erection free from the fabric of his pants, the flesh contrasting dramatically against the dark colour of his clothing. In his left hand he held John’s foot by the ankle, bringing it to his mouth so that he could kiss and suck at it, his right hand curling into a fist around his cock. Even John admitted that the sight of it was thrilling. He curled his toes into Sherlock’s mouth, the other man groaning onto them. 

“Look how filthy you are,” John said, his voice low and teasing. Sherlock made a soft sound of affirmation, his hand speeding up on his prick, the slit dripping wet. His hips bucked upward into his hand, and just to tease him some more John used the toes of his other foot to rub against the base of his cock, the organ feeling hard and thick and wonderful against his skin. 

Sherlock moaned shamelessly, the sound low and creaking in the air. He lifted himself up on his knees, looking down and watching himself as he violently masturbated. “Oh, god,” he was panting. “Oh, _god._ ”

“That’s right,” John hissed, the flattened end of the riding crop between his teeth. “Come for me. Come on my feet, Sherlock, just like you want to.”

The suggestion was so erotic that Sherlock visibly shuddered, his back arching, chest heaving. He whimpered pathetically, that usually silky baritone turned into a sob of desperation. Holding both of John’s ankles in the cup of his hand, Sherlock stroked himself, his cock so thick and hard it felt like it could split, his curls trembling with the force of his pleasure. When John twitched his big toe, the digit gently brushing the bell end of Sherlock’s cock, that was the end of it—Sherlock came fantastically, the warm, wet ropes of white spurting over his possessor’s feet and ankles, splattering onto the wooden floor. He groaned, the sound long and throaty, his hand working up the length of his prick a few times more to squeeze out the last few drops of his seed. 

“Oh, shit,” he panted, looking over his work, residual electric bolts of pleasure shocking through him. 

John hummed in enjoyment. “Lovely,” he commented. “Now clean it up.”

Sherlock had been under John’s rule enough to know what he meant when he said that. Bringing the feet to his mouth one at a time, he licked his mess from them, his tongue running over each bump and hill, the pathways of his veins, the tiny hairs. His seed tasted salty and a little sweet, a testament to the diet of apples that had sustained him while he worked. And when he was finished with them he even licked himself off the floor, utterly shameless. 

John stood with a satisfied sigh, taking up both boots in his hand. “Well,” he said, “now that that’s done…” He swatted Sherlock on the arse with the riding crop on his way to the bedroom. “Run to the market before it closes and get some milk, I’d like to put some in my tea.”

Rising to his feet, Sherlock answered, “Yes, Captain.”


End file.
